Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,10
of daughters be Katherine Shaw? Names and faces spun through her head. Might that be Christina March? Agnes Walker?
Marjory was so certain an elderly woman was Jean Scott that she spoke her name aloud, expecting her to turn round.
“Jean died two years ago,” Anne informed her. “That’s her younger sister, Isobel.”
Jean, dead? Marjory let the sad news sink in. “What of Margaret Simpson? Or Grisell Lochrie?”
Her cousin shook her head. “Both are gone.”
“Then I shall look for their gravestones after services,” Marjory said, grieved by the unexpected news. Though she’d not known them well, they were women not much older than she.
As they ventured down the center aisle, Marjory surveyed the interior, her heart sinking further. The woodwork, once impressive, was rotting away. Birds flew about the upper reaches, and straw was scattered across the dirt floor. Some of the walls were out of plumb by a full handbreadth, and the tradesmen’s lofts hung at precipitous angles, threatening to collapse.
Was her life not its mirror? Ruined beyond any hope of restoration.
“Do you mean to sit in the Kerr aisle?” Anne nodded toward the north side of the kirk. “Since Lord John’s death, it’s been sorely neglected.”
Marjory stared at the filthy pew and the unstable wall beside it. “Why did Mr. Laidlaw not provide for the upkeep? Surely he paid our rent each Martinmas?”
“ ’Twould seem he did not,” Anne said as heads began turning. “Nor has he darkened the door of this kirk in many a season.”
Marjory moved forward on leaden feet. If Gibson were there, he would see the wooden pew scrubbed clean before they took their seats or remove his coat to spare her gown. But Gibson was lost in the woods or waylaid by some blackguard.
When Marjory turned into the Kerr pew, the voices round them grew louder, rolling up and down the aisles like tenpins.
“It canna be!”
“Leddy Kerr?”
“Surely not …”
A middle-aged woman pushed her way through the crowd. “Tell us, Annie! Tell us who yer visitors are.”
Visitors? Marjory turned to face them. Do they not know me at all? When Elisabeth slipped an arm round her waist, Marjory leaned into her, grateful for her height and her strength. Aye, and her courage.
“These are my cousins,” Anne said loudly enough that all present might hear. “Marjory Kerr, returned from Edinburgh with her daughter-in-law Elisabeth Kerr.”
Exclamations rang through the kirk. “Not Lady Kerr?” an older woman cried, distress written across her wrinkled features. “But, madam, where are your lads? Where are Donald and Andrew?”
Marjory recognized her at once. “Miss Cranston!” She stretched out her hands toward the former governess who’d once cared for the Kerrs’ young sons. “Can it be you?”
“Aye!” Elspeth Cranston hurried forward and briefly clasped her hands in return. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, peering intently at Marjory. “Has something happened, milady? You do not seem … yourself.”
A murmur of agreement moved through the onlookers as they drew closer.
When Marjory looked up, they were no longer strangers. Here was Martha Ballantyne, who’d oft come to Tweedsford for an afternoon of whist. Behind her stood Douglas Park, with his somber expression and treble chins. Charles Hogg in the next pew had tutored her sons in Latin. Another whist partner, Sarah Chisholm of Broadmeadows, stood nearby, her black hair as thick as a wool bonnet, while John Curror of Whitmuir Hall tarried close behind her.
One after another the townsfolk urged her to speak, calling out to her.
“Whatsomever has happened?”
“Why’ve ye come hame?”
“Whaur are yer sons?”
Marjory’s mouth trembled. Nae, her whole body shook while she struggled to find the right words. “I am not … as you remember me,” she finally said, her voice strained to the breaking point. “When I departed Selkirk, I had a family.” She held out her empty hands. “Now I have nothing.”
She bowed her head as a wave of anguish washed over her. Help me, please help me. Had she not realized this day would come, when all of Selkirk would learn the truth? Once their murmurings finally ebbed, Marjory said what she must. “My husband died seven years ago. But my sons … my dear sons died in January. On Falkirk Muir.”
“Nae!” Elspeth Cranston fell back a step, her hand pressed to her mouth. “Not the Jacobite battle?” She looked round as if seeking others’ counsel. “Forgive us, but … we’d not heard of your loss.”
Out of the ensuing silence came a gruff voice. “Yer lads bore arms for King George, aye?”
“They’re Kerrs,” another answered. “Wha else would they